Barefoot and in a dress, I spent two hours this evening hosing down and sweeping the world's dirtiest patio, all while muttering obscenities under my breath that would likely send my Pastor into cardiac arrest.
About an hour into the job, a little old man (one of many in this 'snowbird' suburban hell), passed behind my house on the golf course path, walking a dog that looked even older than he did. He hovered for a long while, watching me closely, and I started to think that perhaps he was a perv with a fetish for young barefoot moms in mini-dresses with garden hoses in their hands, and I wondered if the words, "What the f*ck are you leering at you f*cking geriatric creeper?!" could be construed as disrespecting my elders. Finally, he spoke. "Darlin', that's a big job for a little lady. Perhaps your husband would be better suited for the manual labor."
Ergh. Gritted teeth. Resisted the overwhelming urge to fire a straight stream of water into his dentures and storm away into the confines of my single-parent home.
I know this is where you ladies want to hear that I struck a Rosie the Riveter pose, declaring "Husbands are for pansies who can't stand on their own! Girl Power!" threw in a high kick for S's and G's, and continued hosing, sweeping and scrubbing that patio 'til it shone like the top of the Chrysler Building. (We love you, Miss Hannigan.)
But all I could do was smile (very artificially) and inform this southern gentleman that my husband was "altogether unavailable." Luckily, he was a quick one, and I think he understood, because his next step was to stare back at me with the combined look of sympathy and horror that tells me that back in his day, divorced women who didn't remarry someone to hose down their patios were either stoned to death in public, or declared lesbians by way of a scarlet "L" emblazoned across their chests. I thanked him for his concern, feigned confidence in the job I was doing, and continued on with the chore feeling rather defeated by life.
I lived alone before I was married. ALONE. As in, without a roommate. In fact, I did a whole helluva lot on my own, except for automobile maintenance, which to this day my father is damn-near insistent that I don't try to do on my own. But standing out there in that heat, with a giant circus broom, with two little faces pressed against the glass sliding doors, whining about wanting to come outside and why wasn't I done yet?!, I would've given just about anything to be able to hand that broom to someone else. Anyone at all. Pathetic, right? I concur. I am pathetic. Pathetic, tired and overwhelmed by having to re-learn that I should only count on myself, and disheartened by the realization that it. freaking. SUCKS. Period.
I grew up with a mother who, in seeing my sisters and I cry or even pout over a "boy," would literally smack us upside our heads and tell us that we should never invest all of our happiness, self-worth, confidence, or faith in any man. This from the woman who was married to the same man (my dad) for more than 30 years. Well, point, counter-point, and you win once again, mom. I failed. I put all of my eggs in the "'Til Death Do Us Part" basket and completely forgot how to be myself or stand alone. And while I was doing my darnedest to balance "Through Sickness and Health" and "In Richer or Poorer" and "In Good Times and Bad," I failed to realize that the eggs had begun to rot, and that I had begun to die on the inside. Some feminist you raised, mom. I failed you. I failed myself. I failed the 24-year-old newlywed version of myself that swore she would never change or put all of her eggs in anyone else's basket.
I would like to pretend that I am a neo-feminist and/or an inspiration to struggling divorcees and single moms, but I am nowhere near worthy of that kind of praise. I would like to pretend that I am so exhilerated by the sight of a clean patio or well-maintained car or delicious dinner that it motivates me to want to do more and do better, but the truth is, I wouldn't mind seeing someone else take care of it all. I did finish that patio, and while I'm glad that it's clean, I'm not excited about having done it, and I'm sure as hell not excited about having to do it again. It sucked.
I fought the To Do List, and the To Do List won.
I like that I'm figuring things out and reviving my spirit every day, but I cannot lie...it would sure be nice to have some help. So, I'm not really the feminist you want me to be, I guess. I'm just a girl who does what she has to do, when she has to, because she hasn't the option to do otherwise. And that's the best you get from me right now. But the good news is, I'm more ME today in a soaking wet mini-dress, dirty feet and bad attitude, than I have been in a long time. Progress? Perhaps.
Girl power!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
I liked this. It's going to sound like a really weird comparison, but it reminded me (in a good way) of Robert E. Lee's words after he lost the battle of Gettysburg, and realized that though he would go on and keep fighting, he would eventually lose the war. "It is only another defeat," he said. "If the war goes on--and it will, it will--what else can we do but go on? It is the same question forever, what else can we do? And does it matter, after all, who wins? Will God ask that question in the end?"
ReplyDelete